


The Final Endgame

by gmariam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmariam/pseuds/gmariam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson leads an average life, yet not all is quite as it seems--from his fiancée to his stolen identity to the strange old man he meets across the street, and even the so-called Reichenbach Fall. As events move slowly toward yet another endgame, John plays pawn once more--and pays dearly for it, even as his life threatens to return to what it once was. The question is: does he want that life back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Endgame

June 16th

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.

_Comments disabled_

_Blog locked_

 

June 26th

There was no funeral. Mycroft insisted on it, given what had happened at the end. The press had turned, and he was afraid any sort of public ceremony would only attract more negative attention. He also said something about Sherlock failing to appreciate anyone mourning his death anyway. He was as uncaring a bastard as his brother sometimes.

Sherlock once said he only had one friend, but he had more than that. We met at Miller's Pub tonight. No one believes anything the press is saying. We're all still in shock.

I ran into Sarah on the way out. She'd gone by the flat to express her condolences. Mrs. Hudson had told her where to find us. I suppose when you are kidnapped by Chinese gangsters it's only appropriate to pay your respects to the man who saved you from being killed by a dart gun. I owe him so much.

It was good to see her again, though.

 

July 1st

Lestrade brought over the official file on the fall. The Reichenbach Fall - that's what the papers are calling it. It's rubbish. I was there. I saw it happen and I still don't believe it. And I don't think Lestrade does either. There are many questions that we'll never know the answers to, but I do know one thing: Sherlock Holmes did not kill himself. If it was anything, it was murder, and Jim Moriarty was the killer.

 

July 16th

Mycroft finally came around the other day with some of his suits and took most of Sherlock's belongings. It was a bit difficult. He was, of course, completely disengaged from the entire process. Only once did he appear the least bit regretful for his part in what happened. I thought for a moment he might tell me something, but the moment was quickly lost.

It seemed like a few things had gone missing somehow - his violin, his revolver. I kept the skull.

And I've moved out. Sarah recommended a flat not far from her place on Park Lane. I just can't stay at Baker Street after all that's happened.

 

September 4th

I saw Mrs. Hudson today. We met in the café and she cried. Apparently she can't find anyone for 221b. I think she misses finding body parts in the refrigerator.

Lestrade called as well--about a case. I suspect he was hoping some of Sherlock might have rubbed off on me, but I did nothing for him that his people couldn't have done just as well, even Anderson. As Sherlock was so fond of saying, the rest of us are just average, ordinary. That is my life these days: ordinary.

Now I understand why he was always so bored.

Even worse that it still didn't work out with Sarah.

 

September 18th

Lestrade came by again. I think he misses Sherlock more than he misses me. He asked me to look at a body at St. Bart's Hospital. It seems a number of homeless people have been attacked lately but I did not recognize him. I suspect Sherlock would have been angry to know his homeless network was being targeted.

It was good to see Molly again. She seemed a bit stiff-lipped about something, but then she might just feel uncomfortable around me given how much she liked Sherlock. I met a new doctor at the hospital, Mary Morstan. She was quite pretty and rather nice. I almost wish I had more reasons to visit the morgue.

 

September 27th

Mary Morstan phoned. I was quite surprised to hear from her. She said Molly had given her my number. She was not calling for coffee, however: she said she needed help. It seems the ghosts of my past as a consulting detective's companion follow me even after three months.

 

I agreed to meet her, and upon hearing her story, I could only agree to help. I can't share the details here, but suffice to say it did involve some rather clever detective work on my part. It was all of a medical nature, and I can only imagine how dull and simple it would have been for  _him._ Or maybe I would have finally had one up on him.

Molly was impressed, though. Unfortunately she's leaving St. Bart's to head back north. She seemed sad and distant. I think Sherlock's death has hit her hard.

I have a proper date with Mary this weekend, though. I will not be taking her to the circus.

 

October 2nd

I heard a story on the news today that reminded me of Sherlock. It was about a veteran who had returned from Afghanistan with PTSD. Rather like me, only this bloke didn't find an eccentric flatmate to visit Buckingham Palace with, or a even a dull day job. He joined some sort of gang and started with petty crimes, until he was arrested for killing an innocent homeless man on a bike over the summer. But at trial he was found not guilty by reason of self-defense. How a man shoots a biker in self defense I'll never understand. I met Lestrade for a drink, and he said it was a bit like Moriarty's case, in that the man was obviously guilty but still went free. It's just a much smaller scale, which was probably why it's not been a big story.  Only something feels wrong. Sherlock would know immediately. I can only wonder.

 

December 24th

It is hard to believe that it was a year ago when we heard of Irene Adler's death--her first one, anyway. The woman. How Sherlock really felt about her, I'll never know. A small part of me wonders if she was actually beheaded in Afghanistan or if it was yet another ruse. Perhaps she truly is successful in America--or perhaps she really is dead.

This Christmas has been difficult and so very different. No murders to solve, for one. And I'm still seeing Mary. It's a nice change, to be with someone for more than a month. What's strange is not having to run off on her in the middle of the day or night. I know that drove Sarah mad after a while. She was always afraid I'd turn up in the morgue. She was wrong about that.

I've had some strange mail lately--adverts for a new costume shop in Wimbledon. They seem to send them every other day, but I'm not sure what I need a mask or superhero costume for. They are all a bit creepy looking. I'd be offended if I could be bothered with it, but I don't need a new look. I almost preferred the junk email for nicotine patches. At least it reminded me of him.

I miss the violin playing carols tonight.

 

March 21st

Not much has happened over the past three months. Life has returned to and remained normal. While a part of me does enjoy the day-to-day regularity of having a job, a relationship, even a rugby club, whenever I hear a siren, my heart speeds up. And not from fear, but from…something else. Anticipation? Excitement? Somewhere, a crime was committed, and once I might have been involved in solving it. Now I treat sick babies and overweight adults all day. It is a far cry from life in either Afghanistan or Baker Street. I still am not sure which is right for me.

Nevertheless, I have made a decision. I am not getting any younger and it is time to settle down. I bought a ring at the jewellers the other day. Hopefully Mary will say yes.

 

March 24th

She said yes.

I am going to be married.

 

April 2nd

We've received a strange gift for the engagement: a membership to the Bristol South swimming pool. I've no idea who it's from or why it was sent. I called the club to see if it was some sort of joke or promotion, but they could not tell me anything. I returned it, though, as it obviously brings back bad memories of being wired to an IED.

Mary found the whole thing rather amusing, until I told her what had happened that night with Moriarty. There are a lot of things I haven't told her, especially about Moriarty. Sometimes I wonder if he's really dead. Sherlock called him the spider at the center of a deadly web. There have been a few stories in the news lately that sound like something he would be involved in. I wish I had seen the body, but Mycroft took it into custody almost immediately after that horrible day on the rooftop.

Sometimes I wish Mycroft were hiding something. If Moriarty were alive, then perhaps Sherlock is as well.

 

April 13th

I've had my identity stolen. Not in the random way where someone goes on a shopping spree with your credit card, but in such a way that I am certain I was targeted.

I was at the pub with Stamford and gave them my credit card. It clearly says  _John H Watson_ , and yet when the waitress brought it back she said "Thank you, Mr. Partington." I told her she must be mistaken, as the name on the card was not Partington. She frowned and showed me the receipt, which clearly said "Bruce Partington" instead of John Watson. I swear I felt a chill go down my spine.

 

When I logged into my email that night, I found my name changed there as well. I looked up my Army account and that had been changed. Everything, everywhere: I was no longer John Watson, but Bruce Partington. It couldn't be a coincidence.

The next day I hurried to the Diogenes Club. I had not spoken to Mycroft since the day he had taken his brother's belongings. He was reluctant to even see me until I told him about Bruce Partington. He sat up straighter and assured me he would look into it.

I am still waiting. I am still Bruce Partington. And someone is watching me from the coffeeshop across the street. An old man, I think.

 

April 15th

Mycroft picked me after work yesterday, in his usual Spooks kind of way. The driver took me to an abandoned flat on the river. Mycroft assured me I was John Watson once more, and that he was looking into the identity switch. I asked him about Moriarty, but he would not say anything. He gave me some unusual advice, though.

"How well do you know her?" he said. I asked him who he was talking about, and he replied "Your fiancée, of course."

I admit that I lost my temper. I thanked him for his help, but told him to kindly stay out the hell out of my personal life. He simply nodded and told me to think about it. My identity had been easy to erase; so could hers.

Before I left, he gave me Sherlock's phone. I'm not sure how he even came by it, but he thought I might want it. I can't even turn it on.

Knowing what I know about false identities--James Moriarty, Richard Brook, even Irene Adler--I cannot help but wonder if Mycroft knows something he isn't telling me.

 

April 16th

Mary has been acting odd--or perhaps I am just looking at her differently since meeting with Mycroft. She seems anxious. I have also caught her staring at the skull several times. She says it's creepy and that it "freaks her out," but she looks more annoyed than anything when she stares. I hated that skull, but it's all I have left of him now.

And another odd thing: I was at the coffeeshop across the street when the old man sitting at the table next to me began going on about married life as if it were some sort of living hell only an imbecile would consider. When I asked him how he knew I was going to be married, he shrugged and said I simply had the look about me. I then asked him if he had been married, to which he gave me a look of disgust and replied, "Most certainly not!"

The strangest thing was, when he left, he said, "Good-bye, Mr. Partington." It seems I have not left Bruce behind completely. If Mycroft weren't such an arse I'd take it up with him. Something is going on.

 

April 22nd

The grumpy old man at the coffeeshop has not let up on me. You would think I was walking to my death and not just down the aisle from the way he talks about marriage. He seems convinced it will be the end of me. Between him, Mycroft (who reminds me of him a bit, only younger) and Mary's continuing odd behavior, I admit I am having my doubts. I don't think I'm ready.

I went by Baker Street to see Mrs. Hudson and talk about it, only she seemed to think it was nothing but normal. She also said she had found a tenant for 221b, but that they still hadn't moved in. They pay their rent and keep deferring their move in date. Eight months now, and it's still empty. I almost had a look around, but decided against it. I was surprised to see the old man from the coffeeshop on the street when I left.

 

April 25th

For some reason I remembered the phone Mycroft had given me and flipped it on today. There was an email with my name on it. It had already been read--Mycroft, no doubt. It contained an audio file.

I was right: Moriarty was real. Sherlock recorded it all up there and left it for us. His note, he said. I believed him anyway, but now there is proof. The only problem is, there is nothing to be done with it. Mycroft obviously knows. I played it for Lestrade as well, but we both know it's too late. The case is closed. Sherlock Holmes remains a fraud.

 

April 26th

Mary is out of town at a medical conference. I am grateful for this, because I have received an alarming parcel today that I can't even begin to understand.

It was a personal file for Mary Morstan. Only not the doctor I happen to be engaged to, but the  _primary school teacher_ . I was immediately reminded of the file for Richard Brook, and I confess my hand started shaking. I am not as quick as Sherlock was, but it's slowly becoming clear to even my eyes that someone is trying to tell me something. The pool membership, Bruce Partington, Myrcroft, even the old man at the coffeeshop. Now this file. I'm going to see Mycroft tomorrow. He may run half the British government, but he will tell me what's going on if I have to beat it out of him with his brother's skull.

 

April 28th

I could not find Mycroft yesterday. But I did run into the old man again, and I couldn't help but confess some of my thoughts, in as vague a way as possible. He nodded, his fingers twitching on the table in front of him. "Someone is certainly trying to warn you," he agreed. I asked him what he meant.

"Someone is warning you not to marry this woman. In fact, I would suggest leaving town immediately. It sounds to me that whatever plan she has regarding your well being may be coming to a conclusion very soon."

Oh how he reminded me of Sherlock! I left him there, watching me from the coffeeshop, and returned to my flat, thinking over what he had said.

Mary had returned a day early, however. And she had changed. I have to go. My shoulder needs dressing.

 

April 29th

Mary was strangely agitated when I returned to the flat. She asked me if I had received any unusual mail. When I confessed that, I had, in fact, received something odd, something about about her, she simply nodded as if she weren't surprised.

"Have you told anyone?" she asked. I shook my head, knowing well enough to lie.

"Have you figured it out then?" she asked. Suddenly a gun was in my face. And suddenly I knew.

Moriarty.

I asked her why. She laughed, though it sounded bitter. Gone was the woman I had proposed to, replaced by a cold, calculating killer. She did not answer. Instead, she kissed me. Then she shot me.

She kissed me and she shot me. In the shoulder. The left shoulder. Feeling a bullet rip through a wound already healed is like no other sensation I can describe. The pain was unbearable. I staggered backward and fell. She stood over me, apologized, and--

Fell dead at my feet.

I can't continue.

 

April 30th

Mary is dead. She was shot point blank range through the heart as she stood above me. The killer stepped from the closet, a tall, nondescript man one would bother to notice on the street. He stared down at me, then ground his foot into my shoulder, obviously enjoying the pain. He crouched and said something in Farsi, leering at me as if daring me to understand. Pinning my right hand down so I couldn't stop him, he placed the gun in my mouth, ready to pull the trigger. I've never tasted gun metal before, and I hope I never do again.

But then he too fell dead, shot through the head from behind. He crumpled on top of me, and I barely remember what happened next.

The old man from the coffeeshop appeared in the doorway, gun in hand. My vision was fuzzy now, but I could swear as he looked at me his face seemed to morph into one far more memorable. He knelt next to me, peered at the wound, and nodded. I started to lose consciouness, but I heard him say, "It'll be okay, John. Trust me. It'll be okay." And his voice sounded different, familiar.

I've always had trust issues, except for one person. I have always, and always will, trust Sherlock Holmes.

I passed out, and when I came to, the old man was gone. Lestrade was sitting with me in an ambulance and my shoulder was on fire. He asked me what had happened, and I told him, and he simply said, "He's back then."

He didn't know Moriarty wasn't the only one who had returned from the dead.

 

May 1st

I've been released from the hospital, but I'm not sure where to go. I'm certainly not going back to my flat. I thought about going to Baker Street, but I'm angry. Really angry. Lestrade has put me up in his spare room for now. I think he's almost as pissed off as I am, though for different reasons. He thinks Moriarty has returned and killed my fiancée. I don't think he understands it's much, much bigger.

I spent three days recovering under armed guard. Lestrade was convinced Moriarty would come after me again. But I knew him, and I knew he wouldn't just smother me with a pillow in my face; he needed the drama, craved the game like someone else I knew.

Speaking of whom, the old man came to see me on my second day in the hospital.

"Are you going to tell them or should I?" I asked before he even sat down.

"Tell them what?" he asked. He was a good liar, except when confronted with the truth. Now that I knew, I could see all the signs I had missed.

"Tell them what's really going on," I replied. Although I was furious, I was even more determined to see him break character first.

"And do you know what's really going on, Mr. Watson?" he asked softly. His hands came together and immediately flew apart. I sat up and stared at him.

"I do. A man I thought was dead apparently recovered from his self-inflicted gunshot wound on the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. He tried to kill me yesterday. You stopped him."

He merely raised an eyebrow.

"In fact, you stopped him from not just killing me, but from smearing my name before he did. John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, dead in a domestic murder-suicide." I stopped. It was the first time I had put everything to words; they came reluctantly and with disgust. "He sent her after me, only she never had a chance. Killing me was her death sentence."

The old man nodded. "Very good, John. Very good--although you are wrong about one small detail. Tell me, have you worked out why?"

"Of course not, you bloody idiot. I'm just a regular bloke, just a doctor, just--." Then it dawned on me: he had come after me to lure his real target out. It was all another game, and I had been the bait.

"It's you," I said. "He still wants you. You've been playing his game this whole year, and he's finally drawn you out. You saved me, but you didn't save her."

"I was too late to save her."

"And do you regret that?" I asked. I was angry, more angry than I had ever been with him.

"She was an assassin sent to manipulate and kill you. Why should I regret her death?" he asked. The façade of the old man was falling away in speech and mannerism, but I was not as happy to see him as I thought I would be.

"She was my fiancée," I told him. I turned away. "And you were my friend."

"Then I am sorry, John," he replied. But it was too little, too late. I would have punched him if I'd been able. Perhaps I still will. I told him to leave.

At first he refused, but when I did not speak, he finally left. Thoughts of Mary and Moriarty swirled in my head. I thought about the strange adverts I'd received, the pool membership, the identity theft. I wondered who had sent me the files that had, in some sense, set the endgame in motion.

Had Moriarty been playing with me? Or had Sherlock been warning me?

 

May 3rd

Lestrade received a parcel at the Yard today. In it was everything he could possibly need to close the net around Moriarty. I confessed the truth of it to him, as well as I understood it, and he was furious. But the trap had been set, and we needed to spring it.

It was while we were arguing about it that the old man showed up and threw off his disguise. I admit I was gobsmacked at just how good it was. Lestrade was speechless. But Sherlock insisted he would explain it all later, and that we just needed to set the plan in motion, quickly and quietly, before the other side could react.

And so tomorrow we will be having a press conference to finish this game.

 

May 4th

I should be in bed. I should be recovering from my wound, loss, and shock. And yet I am too restless, too agitated, too alive to sleep. It's over: we've won. Truly and finally, we have won the game.

A press conference was called for 8 o'clock this morning. Sherlock had carefully chosen the location and staged everything according to his plan and specifications. He left nothing to chance, even the most minute details that we rolled our eyes over: he insisted they mattered, in that infuriating way of his.

Lestrade opened the press conference as I stood to the side. Because naturally I was to be the bait once more. According to the script Sherlock had given Lestrade, the murder of Dr. Mary Moran and attempted murder Dr. John Watson had been to silence him, for he had discovered a terrorist plot to disrupt the heart of London and kill thousands of innocent civilians. It sounded preposterous to me, but then I was still known as a former associate of Sherlock Holmes, and I was assured the public would sympathize with my injury enough to believe it.

Sherlock himself was not present, but waiting nearby. He had carefully staged the scene so that any attempt on my life--and he was somehow certain there would be one--would come from one and only one building, one room, one window. And so he hid there, waiting to apprehend my would-be killer. I did not believe Moriarty himself would be there, but Sherlock did not seem concerned about that small detail; he was determined to catch the sniper himself, certain it would solve the case.

It did not go down quite as planned. There was a scuffle, and the sniper got off one random shot that sent the press conference into a panic. But within moments Sherlock appeared at the window, bruised and bloodied, but smiling broadly: he'd caught him.

And then the real press conference began. Sherlock Holmes, returned from the dead to save his friend! Sherlock Holmes, who threw himself from a building but survived the fall!

How quickly the press can turn--and how quickly they can turn back. They hung on Lestrade's every word as he continued to read from Sherlock's script, until…

"Was it Moriarty?" they demanded. Apparently if one could return from the grave, so could the other. And Sherlock finally stepped forward from the back of the room.

"No," he replied. "It was a man named Sebastian Moran." The reporters looked at each other, confused. I glanced at Lestrade, who seemed equally ignorant. The press demanded more, and Sherlock obliged, in his typically exasperated and obtuse way. He made his way forward and started from the beginning.

James Moriarty was real--and dead. He had cleverly wrapped up the life story of Sherlock Holmes within a perfect lie: the lie that Sherlock was a fraud who had hired an actor to portray the greatest criminal mastermind of the century. In fact, it had been Richard Brook who was the fake, and Sherlock presented the evidence right there to a room of stunned and still skeptical reporters.

He then told the entire world what had happened on the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital. Although I had heard it all on his phone, still to hear it from him, alive and standing in front of me, made it even more incredible.

Moriarty had forced his hand. The only end to the story he had crafted could be the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. And to be sure it would end in no other way, Moriarty had placed snipers on Sherlock's closest friends. If he did not jump, the snipers would pull the trigger. One way or another, Moriarty would win--and Sherlock would lose.

And then the biggest twist: Moriarty had killed himself, ensuring that he could not be coerced to call off the snipers. Sherlock had been forced to jump. But he had been one step ahead of Moriarty the entire time. He had anticipated Moriarty's endgame and made arrangements to fake his death. Even I had to marvel at the brilliance of it, and I knew him--or thought I did.

He had actually jumped, only to land in a carefully placed rubbish truck. His homeless network had provided distraction. He'd quickly doused himself with blood then rolled off into the street. He'd already taken a dose of rare toxin that mimicked death, and he had timed the jump perfectly, so that by the time the crowd had gathered, his pulse had slowed to nothing. He was as good as dead to anyone who saw him, including myself.

The body had quickly been taken away by the paramedics. A friend had covered for him, allowing him to escape once he came to, and the records of his death had been easily falsified. And that's when I realized that both Molly and Mycroft must have known all along: Mycroft had spirited away both Sherlock and Moriarty, and Molly had provided the false coroner's reports, possibly even a body. That was why she had been so distant, why she had left. And Mycroft, in his own way, had been trying to help when he'd given me Sherlock's phone. Perhaps he had sent me the other clues.

Oh, he's come to apologize now. It's the middle of the night, and Sherlock Holmes has come to apologize. Apparently miracles do happen.

 

May 5th

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had successfully faked his own suicide and returned from the dead. I think the room was suitably impressed. I was furious, of course, and looking at Lestrade, I could see that he was as well. Donovan looked even worse.

He told me last night that he had stayed dead to let the furor die down. Mycroft began to work on clearing his name. But it quickly became apparent that while Moriarty was gone, his organization was not, and that it had grown several new heads, like a hydra. And one of those heads was Sebastian Moran, the ex-Army sniper who'd not once, but three times, held me in his crosshairs: first at the pool, then at the hospital, and finally at the press conference.

Moran had been training for months. It was his legacy, to continue Moriarty's work; he'd been groomed for it and groomed well. But where Moriarty was Sherlock's intellectual equal, Moran was more brute force. Sherlock could have taken him down, only Moran had quickly learned that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, dead. When I asked him how Moran had found out when he, Sherlock Holmes, had managed to fool the rest of the world, he told me he had been betrayed: one of the homeless network he had employed--in fact the biker who had knocked me down outside the hospital--had snitched in return for a position in the organization. Moran knew Sherlock was alive, and so began another game of cat and mouse.

He had managed, somehow, to wrangle quite a few of Moran's men, but neither could draw the other out into the open. And so Moran had set in motion one of Moriarty's many plots and sent Mary to St. Bart's to get close to John Watson, Sherlock Holmes's stalwart companion. Moran hadn't anticipated how close, I suppose, and I'd like to think it gutted her to shoot me, but that had always been the plan: draw out Sherlock Holmes by going after, destroying, and murdering his best friend.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, really.

 

May 7th

It had been Sherlock who had sent me the warnings once he had made the connection between Mary and Moran and our engagement had become official. The pool membership, the identity switch, and even the files: he had been warning me that Mary was a part of Moriarty's final problem--a backup plan, but a major challenge none the less. He had appeared as the old man to watch over me. When I asked him why he hadn't come right out and told me, he looked surprised. Because of course he needed to finish the game.

I asked him how he knew to be at my place when Mary had shot me. He said he'd been following me for weeks. He had suspected that once he revealed Mary's identity, events would move quickly. He had not anticipated a second gunman, one of Moran's former Army buddies, shoving the gun in my mouth, but he said he had acted as quickly as he could once he heard a second body fall. Leave it to Sherlock to wait on a thud.

Events indeed moved quickly that day, but the game is over. Moran is in jail and Sherlock's evidence will keep him there. Lestrade has more than enough ammunition to go after the rest of Moriarty's gang. There was no terrorist plot, but London is too grateful to Sherlock Holmes for stopping it to remember how they once vilified him. Apparently that bit was Mycroft's idea; it seems he's made up for his blunder with Moriarty.

Sherlock has moved back into Baker Street. Of course Mycroft had rented back the rooms and held them at Sherlock's request. He insisted he had not planned on staying dead for quite so long and apologized profusely. He might even mean it. He's asked me to join him, but I'm not sure I will. I'm not sure where we stand, to be honest.

The world's only consulting detective has returned. The question remains whether John Watson will join him.

It could be dangerous.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this not long after finishing series 2 of the wonderful BBC series Sherlock. I had a very strong image of the scene with Mary at the end, and an almost desperate inkling to write her into a fic...and then kill her. I think it would be a FABULOUS twist on canon, to have her come into John's life and turn out to be working for the other side. I've tried to throw in a few other nods to canon as well, in particular The Adventure of the Empty House. Most of the theory of Sherlock's fall is out there online already, so I can't say I contributed much original to it. My biggest desire for series 3 will be WHY, and not HOW, he did it. I tried to address that a bit, and hope that the next season does even more. I do hope you've enjoyed this. This is one of the first times I've strayed outside the Harry Potter fandom in my writing. It was fun, so maybe I'll try it again sometime. Many thanks to Lea for talking this over and flailing together over this great show, and to the others on my flist who commented as well, giving me more confidence to post it publicly!


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